I can't trust him, you can't love what you don't trust. That's the song the birdies sing when the weather turns cold and forces them out of their nice homes they built. Nice homes spoiled. Spoiled and ruined. Useless now. So the birdies hate the weather that betrayed them. They fly away to look for new homes that aren't so cold and dreary, dreary, dreary.
I am leaving too. My valise is packed. So dreary everywhere I look. I can't bear it anymore.